Moving Mountains
by presque vu
Summary: In which John Winchester is stuck on the road with a belligerent teenager, a troublemaker of a preteen, and an emotionally repressed six-year-old who just lost his mother. AU Teen!chesters
1. Tiny

**Chapter One: Tiny**

* * *

They're passing through Rapid City when it starts up. Again.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

"Sammy." Dean Winchester all but growls as he turns to bark a leather clad shoulder. "Kick my seat again and you're a dead man."

The Sammy in question rolls his eyes. At thirteen years old, Sam Winchester is made up of nothing but long spindly limbs that he hasn't grown into yet, a smart ass attitude with a mouth that never stops talking, and enough theatrics to make the lead in a fucking Broadway musical. As such, he crosses his arms over his chest at the reprimand. Sighs melodramatically. Shifts his brooding glare out the window.

But John knows better than that. It isn't over yet. Sam's way too stubborn and bored to be nice about it. He counts the seconds silently to himself. One, two, three, four, five, si-

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

Dean has his seat belt unclasped in less than a second. He's crawling into the backseat with a string of insults, threatening to deliver a world class case of whoop ass to Sam, who's already repeating the "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry" mantra and crawling to the other side of the backseat in an attempt to save his own ass.

John grabs a handful of leather jacket and tugs out of sheer frustration alone. The car swerves slightly with the jarring motion.

Dean flexes his jaw, but complies, sinking back into the passenger seat to sulk at the loss of using physical force to solve his problems.

At seventeen, Dean isn't much easier to deal with than Sam is. He's broader, taller, and far more compliant than the younger of the two. Most of the time. But the kid's got a nasty temper to him with enough hotheadedness to fill an elephant. He doesn't know the meaning of the term "cool off" and his penchant for getting into trouble is as repetitive as Sam's penchant for causing trouble.

John's eye is twitching because his patience is wearing thin. He gets that they're tired of being in the car with each other. Honest to God, **_he gets it_**. After fourteen plus hours, _he's_ tired of being in the car _with_ them. But there's no way in hell that he's making any pit stops short of Sioux Falls. They still have a good four hundred and thirty miles until they get to Windom.

"We still have a good four hundred and thirty hundred miles until we get to Windom." The tone of John's voice makes it obvious. He's not dealing with this shit for another six hours. Said shit stops here and now, or else. "Dean, do not get out of that seat again. I don't care _what_ it's for. And Sam, unless you wanna spend the rest of the ride locked in the damn trunk, cut the crap. You hear me?"

The Impala is full of communal achievement as grumbles of reluctant agreement break out from both respective parties. At least they can agree on_ something_ today.

Sam finds a book about werewolves to bury his nose in for the next few hours, Dean focuses any lingering forms of agitation on trying to catch some more Z's, and all is right in the world for a grand total of four minutes as nothing but the comfort of Johnny Cash leaks through the speakers.

And then-

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

"**_Sammy!_**"

Dean's over the seat before John can catch him this time, and Sam is automatically defending himself via heavy werewolf book. They're kicking, and punching, and hitting, and smacking, and each blow is going right to John's head.

"It was an accident, I swear! We hit a bump!"

"That's what I'll be saying _when my fist hits your face_!"

"Ow! Dean, **_stop_**!"

"It ain't my fault, Sam! _We hit a bump_!"

"DAAAAAD!"

"Dean, get back in that fucking seat **_right now_**!"

If the prominent twitching of John's left eye has any say in the matter, it's going to be a very long and stressful six hours.

Thankfully it only takes a few well-placed threats about grounding their asses from here to Timbuktu for the chaos to stop. John makes Dean switch seats with Sam. After he's banned from the next three hunts, of course. Throughout that time, Sam isn't allowed to read anything that even resembles a book unless he's brushing up on something important (like Latin, which Sam actually hates, so John thinks that maybe that should be enforced reading material). The next motel they reach is sure to be without cable or a TV or a pool, and if one more fight breaks out, no matter how little it is, he swears to everything on the face of this earth that they're both sleeping in the car.

The rest of the drive is all smooth sailing as Dean finally gets bored enough to conk out for good. Sam follows behind him not long after a few more minutes of decent sulking. John feels his muscles gradually uncoil in the sweet, beloved silence. Nothing but the strum of Cash's guitar to give him exactly what he needs for the remaining four hours of the trip. Peace and quiet.

He's almost disappointed when it has to come to an end.

The street is the same as he remembers it. Suburban and quiet, full of white picket fences and two car driveways and large trees with large tire swings.

It's the house that looks different. The windows are flooded with darkness and foreboding. John eyes them for any signs of life as he slams the trunk closed, gun loaded and at the ready.

"Dean, stay here and look after your brother." And then, before the jean clad leg can decide if it wants to retreat out of obedience or continue on defiantly after the latest grounding, "That's an order."

John doesn't have to look behind him. The angry slam of the car door tells him all he needs to know. Daddy Dearest; one, Stubborn Teenager; zip.

Holding his gun at eye-level in Badass Motherfucker Shooting Position Number 2, John lifts a heavy boot and kicks the back door down. It's well over two in the morning, but he knows better than to hit the lights just yet. Narrow eyes cut through the darkness as he scans over each and every silhouetted shape he can find. Only when the coast is clear does he flick the light switch.

The kitchen is untouched and looks exactly like any other normal kitchen does. Tables and chairs perfectly in place. A box of Craft's Macaroni & Cheese on the counter. A foamy substance boiling out over the top of a pot, left forgotten on the stove.

John clicks the gas off and calls out in a steady voice. "Adam?"

That's when he hears it. A soft sniffle echoes out from underneath the... cupboard? Following the source of the noise, John slowly nudges the bottom cabinet open with the toe of his boot.

The child wedged inside is tiny and wearing tiny dark blue pajamas with tiny rocket ships on them. He's hugging his tiny knees to his tiny chest- and damn it, if he wasn't so tiny, John wouldn't be lowering his gun and taking to one knee. He reaches out instinctively, carding his fingers through thick messy tufts of pale blonde.

The name slips from his mouth again, much softer this time. "Adam?"

The little boy, the tiny boy, looks up at John with wide blue-green eyes. There's a light splattering of freckles on a familiar nose and a slight tremor to two bony shoulders. He looks as if he might cry, but doesn't at the same time.

"Mommy's gone. The man came and took her," the kid informs him with nothing apart from apology in his voice.

He can't be much older than six or seven years old (eight is a bit of a stretch). He shouldn't be blaming himself for it, but he is. He is, and John doesn't know how to respond. So he doesn't.

"Here buddy. I'm gonna need you to drink this." He holds out a pure silver flask with Just About Fucking Everything inside of it- his own concoction of holy water, dead man's blood, and a few other things he'd make sure to not inform the kid on.

"Why?" Adam asks, tilting his head to the side curiously.

"It's for protection." John assures him. Because he isn't necessarily lying on that front. It really is for protection. His own protection. "I can take a sip first, if you want."

The little boy nods his head and John is all too eager to take a swig and hold it out once more. They need to get going. If Adam really is Adam, his safety is on the line. If Adam isn't really Adam, it's John's safety that's on the line. Either way, they don't have much time left to sit and figure it out.

Luckily, Adam-Or-Not-Adam takes a sip. His face scrunches up, but much to John's relief, he swallows it instead of spitting it out. And abso-fucking-lutely nothing happens aside from the kid looking as if he wants to puke.

"... Protection's gross." Adam mumbles after a few seconds of silence, sounding severely bummed out about the matter.

John smothers down a smirk of amusement, but just barely. He doesn't blame him. Protection is gross. "Damn straight."

He moves forward to hoist the kid up and out of the cupboard. He needs to get him out of here before he scopes the rest of the house out for the Big Nasty. But something stops him. The creak of floorboards and then a voice- a very familiar voice.

"Adam?"

Kate Milligan is standing in the doorway, her white nightgown dirty and tattered and stained with blood. Not so white anymore. She looks frantic and worried, just like any other mother would.

But John knows better. John always knows better. He knew the moment Adam called him two days prior and said that Mommy was missing. Mommy was missing because Mommy is dead.

"Mommy!"

Adam, however, is a tiny six-year-old with a tiny chest, tiny knees, and tiny pajamas with tiny rocket ships on them. He doesn't know any better. He just knows that someone who looks exactly like Mommy is standing there. He knows that he's been scared and alone for days, blaming himself for her disappearance.

But now she's back. She's back and he doesn't have to be scared and alone anymore.

"Adam, no!" John barks, but it's too late. Adam is a fuckload (and yeah, that's definitely a real word in this scenario) faster than John gives him credit for. Before his fingers can latch onto the back of his pajama shirt and pull him out of harm's way, Adam is already running into the welcoming embrace of 'Kate'.

She swings him up and into her arms. Settles his weight onto her hip. Plants a loving kiss to his tiny cheek. It's all so natural that for a second, a small part of John might hope that she really is-

Wait.

No.

This is wrong. This is definitely wrong.

At first, Kate is mumbling to Adam about how worried she was when she couldn't find him. How scared she was when the policeman came after her. How she thought she'd never see him again. She's rubbing his tiny back, and has her nose buried in thick messy tufts of pale blonde.

Then John sees her eyes roll in pure ecstasy as she inhales the scent of Adam's hair.

This isn't just wrong. This is fucking **_disgusting_**.

She mumbles something about dinner. There's a strange grin on her face. And then, she kisses him on the cheek again. Mumbles a bunch of sweet nothings.

Then proceeds to _lick_ the length of Adam's face. That's right. The bitch hauls off and swipes a fucking **_tongue_** over the kid's skin. **_T_****_asting_** the entire left side of his face from his jaw all the way up to his temple.

Adam blinks. Has the nerve to look slightly freaked out about the ordeal. Because what the hell is that about? Mommy doesn't **_do_** that. No mommy does that.

But it's John who sees her mouth open. It's John who knows exactly where she's going for; that little area on the kid's tiny neck where his tiny pulse point is. It's John who's swearing every curse that comes to mind - a lot of combinations that don't make sense - as he raises his gun back into Badass Motherfucker Shooting Position Number 2 and goes to pull the trigger.

There's a loud bang and the creature falls to the ground. Unfortunately, it takes a thoroughly shocked and scared as shit Adam down with it. Fortunately, the fall also reveals a person standing there in the hallway, arms raised in Badass Motherfucker Shooting Position Number 3.

It's John who saw what was going to happen and went in for the head shot.

It's Dean who performed the kill.

Tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans, John is quick to swoop down and pick up Adam, who's shaking again. Trembling as violently as a diabetic about to go into sugar shock. His Mommy is dead. His Mommy _licked_ him and then **_died_** for it.

But there's no time to explain things to him. There's no time to explain things to Dean either. They need to get Adam out of here so they can finish the job. They need to get the fuck out of Windom and the whole state of Minnesota. Fuck Windom. Fuck Minnesota. It's time to haul ass.

"Dean, take your brother outside."

It's the best John can come up with for the time being as he peels the tiny mass of shaking flesh off of him.

An array of emotion flashes across the teenager's face like a strobe light - shock, anger, confusion, betrayal - but Dean's good. Not as good as John is yet, but still better than most others in their line of work.

Dean knows the job comes first. Dean knows the job**_ always_** comes first, no matter what.

John will either give his best explanation later when they're back in the car, or he'll leave it to the "take your brother outside" line to say everything he's not ballsy or patient enough to voice out loud.

Although glaring viciously, Dean tucks his own gun away and accepts the quaking, traumatized mess that is Adam without comment. Wraps a secure hold around him. Lets the tiny arms and tiny legs wrap around his neck and waist. Shoots one last look over at his father before disappearing into the comforting darkness of night.

The stillness that follows the teenager's retreat echoes his thoughts off of the walls; _We are fucking talking about this later, Dad._

John waits until he's alone with the body of the ghoul to run a hand down his tired, weary face. He just used his own son, practically still a baby, as bait to lure the monster out. The monster who, to Adam, at least, was nothing monstrous at all, but merely his mother. Just Kate Milligan. The same Just Kate Milligan that Dean, Adam's brother, just killed with a single shot to the head.

John can feel the impending migraine pressing into his skull as he finishes up the job with a good dismemberment and a decent salt and burn of the corpse.

He hasn't been a father of three for more than ten minutes and it's already turned to shit. Dean's pissed as hell and clearly upset, Adam's pretty much turned into the human equivalent of jelly, and there's no telling how Sam will react.

John's got twenty bucks that says all of it will spiral out of his control by the end of the week. Two weeks tops.


	2. Wheel of Fortune

**Chapter Two: Wheel of Fortune**

* * *

If John had somehow convinced himself that Sam would possibly take it a little easier than Dean... He was wrong and he'd never been more wrong about something in his entire life.

Sam Winchester is usually defined as three things. One; Sam, Sammy, and/or on occasion, Samuel. Two; Sasquatch, Gigantor, Bean Pole, Twiggy, or any other condescending nickname Dean can come up with on the spot. And, most importantly, three; Dean's little brother.

For his entire life, all near thirteen years of it, Sam has always been Dean's little brother. He's become pretty damn good at it too. But now... Now there's Adam. And Adam is Dean's little brother too. Just like Adam is Sam's little brother. Which makes Sam Adam's big brother and Sam's never been a big brother before.

And from the appalled look on his face, he doesn't want to try it out anytime soon.

John tries to be understanding about it. He really does.

"Look, I know this is difficult, but-"

"No you don't." Sam cuts him off. "You don't know a damn thing. If you did, you would've told us about him a long time ago."

Sam doesn't make it easy and Dean's recently taken vow of silence only adds onto the situation. While Sam is all about heated glares and scowls, Dean hasn't looked in John's general direction since he carried Adam out of the house a few hours prior.

As for Adam, he's been laying on the bed since they arrived at the Iowa motel. Staring at the other three occupants of the room. He hasn't said a single word since they got in, and John's not sure whether he should be grateful or worried. At least the kid's stopped shaking like a kid shaped jell-o mold.

"Because I didn't know!" John protests, his voice rising in volume with every frustration-coated word. "She told me about him when he was a baby, but she said to stay away if I couldn't be there!"

Sam's eyes grow wide, mouth gaping up and then closing a few times. It takes him a minute to break out of fish-out-of-water mode and actually form words. "So you knew about him the whole time, and you didn't think to tell us?! You just... You just **_hid_** him?! Like he was a secret?!"

"No! I didn't just hide him, Sam!" John exclaims. He doesn't want to have to explain himself to a twelve-year-old. Or thirteen. Or however the hell old he is... How old is Sam, again?

"... Oh, so now you're contradicting yourself?" Sam raises an eyebrow in **_that_** attitude. The one that grates every last of his father's nerves. The one he _knows_ grates every last of his father's nerves.

John clenches his fists. Looks as if he's about ready to fly off the wall into full blown angry tyrant mode. Then exhales sharply and says, "I protected Adam just like I protect you and your brother."

"Yeah." Sam lets out a scoff and then mumbles underneath his breath. Spitefully. "Lot of good luck that did."

And John... John just can't take it. Not right now. Not when he has three kids and one of them isn't even old enough to use a gun. Not when he shouldn't have to be worrying about something like them being old enough to use guns in the first place.

John's tired and weary and beaten down and has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to do about any of it. So John does what John knows how to do. He shoves up from the table, throws his jacket on, and calls out over his shoulder as he locks the door to the motel.

"Dean, look after your brothers while I go grab us some cash. You know what to do."

Sam's still scowling after John leaves. The book that Dean lobs at his head doesn't really help to sweeten his sour mood.

"What the hell was that for?" the preteen asks indignantly.

Dean's response is quick. It's not surprising. Dean's responses are always quick when it comes to Sam. "For being a prissy, whiny bitchface. That's what."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "You're one to talk, Mr. Brood In Silence. Your bitchface is worse than mine."

Dean is one who scoffs this time, with the sure fire protest of, "It is not."

"Is too."

"Is _not_."

"Is _too_."

"Not!"

"Too!"

"Not!"

"**_Too_**!"

"**_No_**-"

"When's he comin' back?" A voice that is definitely not Dean or Sam's pipes up from across the room.

It's so unexpected that Dean and Sam blink in surprise. Slowly look over at the kid on the bed. Oh. Right. There's a kid on the bed.

Adam, however, is unperturbed by the way they're staring at him. Instead, he's laying on his stomach. Watching them with a rapt attention that only a child who'd grown up without siblings does. Head resting in the palms of his hands, weight propped up on his elbows, little legs kicking gently back at forth as if he doesn't have a single care in the world. As if the events of the night have had no effect on him.

The weight of his question sinks in. Dean glances over at Sam, and Sam glances over at Dean, and they get into a silent argument about who's going to answer.

No one answers.

So when Adam asks, "S'he goin' ta work?", it's no surprise that neither of them answer that question either. It's only right seeing as neither of them have any fucking idea **_how_** to.

It's not like they can just sit down with him and say _"Adam, your dad hunts evil for a living and sometimes the pay isn't good so he has to get money by scamming people so we can eat"._ Adam's around six, maybe seven years old at most. Possibly five, even. He doesn't know the meaning of the word scam. He can't understand the concept of evil anymore than he can understand the concept that his mother isn't going to be walking through that door anytime soon. But more importantly, he doesn't know the meaning of the word scam.

"How old are you?" Dean resorts to changing the subject instead, while Sam slouches down in his seat because he doesn't want to be a big brother. He's perfectly fine with staying the little brother, thank you very much. The **_only_** little brother.

"Six." Adam informs with a nod of his head. As if he needs to nod his head so they know he's speaking the truth.

"Six, huh?" Dean replies with a zealous sense of interest. It's so fake that he kind of wants to barf his lunch back up, but the kid will believe it. He knows. "That's cool. I'm seventeen."

Adam's eyes widen twice their size. "Wow. You're _old_."

Sam can't help it. He slouches forward. Feels his mouth twitch a little. Without his consent, of course. The little bastard's still on his shit list.

Meanwhile, Dean is caught somewhere between wanting to be insulted and wanting to be proud. He settles somewhere in the middle on justified exasperation. "I am _not_ old."

There's a glint of mischief in Adam's eyes that makes the Winchester resemblance uncanny all of a sudden. "Are too. You're seventeen. That's almost twenty. Twenty is old."

"Dude, twenty is not old. Twenty is hot." Dean responds with pure Dean logic. As any Dean would, really.

Sam cuffs him in the back of the head. As any Sam would. "He's six."

"Yeah, so? I picked up on that." Dean argues back with the light bumping of his fist to his brother's shoulder. "It's not like I said anything about babes or tits-"

"Dude!"

"What?"

"Shut up!"

"... Whatever." Dean rolls his eyes and settles himself onto the floor in front of the bed.

He's kind of agitated, but that's okay because Sam's kind of agitated too. It's not like when only one of them are kind of agitated, and the other one is suffering in silence. When they're kind of agitated together, flicking the television on usually fixes everything. So that's what Dean does- because they totally managed to talk John into letting them have a room with a television.

As Dean predicted, Sam is far too content to settle down beside him on the floor.

Neither of them make a move to sit on the bed with Adam, but that's okay too because Adam's perfectly content with being sprawled out on the bed all by himself. Chin resting in the palms of his hands right by their heads.

All three of them are content with the arrangement and Dean settles on Wheel of Fortune because it's the only decent thing on at five in the morning.

That's okay because Dean likes Wheel of Fortune and Sam likes Wheel of Fortune and Adam's never seen Wheel of Fortune but he thinks he'll like it too.

One of the contestants spins the wheel and twenty blue boxes pop up on the screen. Adam counts them proudly and declares, "Twenty is hot."

Dean snorts and gives him a high five. Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. Adam snorts because Dean and Sam are snorting and it feels like the right thing to do.

The category is "Famous Models", according to the bottom of the screen, and Adam has absolutely no idea what a Famous Model is. He's heard of model airplanes before, but he doesn't think that's the answer because Dean immediately takes to calling out names as if the game show host can hear him.

"Cindy Crawford! Claudia Schiffer! Kate Moss! Tyra Banks!"

Sam is shaking his head as if he's disappointed with Dean about something, and Adam still has absolutely no idea what a Famous Model is. Or who a Famous Model is.

"Whassa Famous Model mean?" He asks in the middle of Dean's slew of babble.

Sam glances over at him warily, as if just noticing that he's there and looking a bit uneasy about his findings. Again. "Erm... it means-"

But Dean's already answering with a very bold and careless "Babes and tits."

Sam shakes his head, but doesn't say anything else, so Adam guesses that Dean's description is the right one.

He nods his head and parrots, "Babes and tits."

"Adam, don't say that." Sam throws a warning glare over his shoulder because Dean either can't or won't. Dean's too busy looking as if he's about to bust out laughing. Sam's too busy looking as if he's still kind of agitated.

"Why?" Adam tilts his head. "Dean said it."

"So? Dean's older. He's allowed to say it." Sam huffs for no apparent reason other than to huff.

"He's almost twenty. Twenty's old." Adam says.

"Exactly." Sam agrees. "Dean's old. Old people are delusional."

"Deans are delusional." Adam nods again.

"Deans _are_ delusional." Sam agrees again.

Then, after a minute of silence because Sam's too busy getting dragged into a headlock by Dean and Adam's too busy being confused, the kid asks, "...What's delusional mean?"

"Awesome and god-like." Dean says before Sam can answer, even though he does so anyway. After Dean. "More like ugly and dumb-like."

"Watch it, Twiggy."

"Bite me, meathead."

"I wouldn't bite you if you offered me a million bucks. That's how the disease spreads." Dean looks as if he's talking and making sense at the same time.

"What disease?" Sam demands with the same justified indignation that Dean had before. "I don't have a disease!"

"Sure you do!" Dean assures him with a mock comforting pat on the head. He still has him in a headlock. "SGD. Spastic Gargantuan Disease. Shit spreads like wildfire, Sammy. Can't be too careful."

"You're such a friggin' jerk." Sam shoves himself away. Dean lets him.

"And your little punkass bitchface loves me every day for it."

But in spite of the insults flying around to and fro, both of the older boys are grinning like fiends. As if they haven't spoken to each other in a long while. Even though they've been talking the whole time.

Then Dean mumbles something about Wheel of Fortune being a productive healing process and Adam isn't entirely sure what that means, but he isn't entirely sure what a lot of things mean and he doesn't ask because it's five in the morning. He's out like a light before the next commercial break rolls around.

At the soft puffs of air being expelled from little lungs, Sam looks back at Adam. Glances forlornly at the vast empty space on the bed. It's a king size. Big enough for more than just Adam, who doesn't even take up much space at all. Even when he's sprawled out.

"Hey Dean?" He's not in a headlock anymore.

Dean's eyes are focused on a Big Mac commercial, but he still lets out a small hum of acknowledgement. "Hm?"

Sam bites his lip, asks timidly, "... Where uh... where 're you sleepin'?"

"On the bed if we c'n get the midget ta' move over." Dean looks back at Adam as if he can hear him. Then snorts softly. Repeats the words from earlier to himself. "... Twenty is hot. Heh."

And then the world crumbles right from underneath Sam's feet because he can't handle the cold feeling that sweeps across his chest at the look in Dean's eyes. Dean's got that look that he gets when Sam does something right on a hunt. It's not pride because Dean isn't proud when Sam does something right on a hunt. Dean already expects Sam to do something right on a hunt.

No, it's different than that. It's a subtle kind of fondness that Dean only shows when he reaches over to ruffle Sam's hair and call him a decent shot for a girl. A fondness that glints in Dean's eyes whenever they have a close call and Sam saves Dean's life or Dean saves Sam's life or they save each other's lives and Dean realizes after being beaten and bruised and bloodied up that all is still right in the world because they're still alive.

This time is different. This time it hurts. This time it feels cold because the glint of fondness is not directed at Sam. This time it's directed at Adam. And Sam doesn't understand it because Adam's never been hunting before. Adam's never saved Dean's life. Adam doesn't deserve that look.

Sam can't help when his fists clench tightly and the need to put those fists through the TV screen washes over him like a tidal wave of fury as he turns his gaze back to Wheel of Fortune. He doesn't say anything else. Dean doesn't say anything else either. The TV fixes everything.

An hour or so later, the weariness finally begins to settle deep within the marrow of their bones. The sun is rising and they're both winded down and ready to go to bed. Because eventually John will be back and when John gets back they're going to be on the road again for who knows how many hours or days or weeks. This might be the last chance they have to sleep on a mattress for a long while.

Sam lets Dean change in the bathroom first because Dean is quick about it and Sam isn't. Sam sits on the toilet lid for a while after he's in his pajamas. Rakes a hand through his thick brown mop of hair. Tries to wait and see if the icy feeling inside of his chest will melt down on its own.

When it doesn't, he's not surprised. He's not surprised that he's not surprised either.

He half-considers sleeping in the bathtub, but knows that will raise too many questions from both Dean and John. Possibly Adam. Adam's the last person Sam wants asking him questions.

By the time Sam is out of the bathroom, Dean is snoring and Adam is snoring and Sam wants to hit something. He ignores the empty space in between the two figures on the bed and crawls back onto the floor where they'd been sitting, not even bothering to steal a pillow.

He's made up his mind. He doesn't want a pillow. He doesn't want the empty space in between Dean and Adam on the bed. And he definitely doesn't want to be a big brother. What he does want is to go back in time and stop Kate from dying. Keep Adam a secret that they'd never find out about. Hog Dean all too himself and not have to worry about any sneaky little bastards stealing him away.

Sam Winchester would like a refund on his Model 1990 Little Brother, please, and pronto. He'd much rather have a goldfish.


End file.
